


Let’s See What Happens

by fawatson



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 23:10:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5068474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gregor is always assured of his mother's love and care for his well-being.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let’s See What Happens

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vass/gifts).



> **Request:** I asked for Gregor. I like Gregor/Laisa, and am happy to read that. I think they're sweet together. If you want a trick prompt for this fandom, think about the horrific possibilities of the phrase "let's see what happens" as a guiding philosophy. And of how Gregor has guarded himself against his father's insanity all his life, but does not seem particularly worried about the possibility that he could be completely sane, doing what he thinks is best for the empire, and still allow or do terrible things. I'm okay with if you want to scare me, or if you want to go for "occult/supernatural" but not particularly scary...ghosts that go BOO. I do not want disability as a horror trope.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters and make no profit by them. 
> 
> **Author’s Notes:**  
>  (1) Many thanks to Project Gutenberg for “Cinderella” (available at: http://www.gutenberg.org/files/11027/11027-h/11027-h.htm#cinderella) which I shamelessly misused in the first segment of this story.  
> (2) Many thanks to Julia Ecklar’s novel _The Kobayashi Maru_ (published by Pocket Books in 1989) which provided ideas for part of this story.

“Now _you_ tell me what happened next,” Princess Kareen said, holding the picture book open for him to read as they cuddled on the bed together. 

Gregor snuggled into her sleepily, “The wicked sister pretends she’s Lady Vorcinders: read it Mummy,” he commanded. 

Princess Kareen smiled, looking down at her son. He had heard this so many times he must know it word for word; but always it was his first choice at bedtime. Obedient to his wishes, she read on:  


“Lady Vorkaterinka went first into the room where the slipper was, and wanted to try it on. But her big toe could not go into it, and the shoe was altogether much too small for her. Then her mother said, ‘Never mind, cut it off. When you are Empress you will not care about toes; you will not want to go on foot.’ So the wicked stepsister cut her big toe off, and squeezed the shoe on, and went to Prince Evon Vorbarra. Then he took her for his bride, and rode away with her.  
But on their way home they had to pass by the hazel-tree that Lady Vorcinders had planted, and there sat a little dove on the branch, singing—  
‘Back again! back again! look to the shoe!  
The shoe is too small, and not made for you!  
Prince! prince! look again for thy bride,  
For she's not the true one that sits by thy side.’”

Kareen looked down; Gregor had fallen asleep as she read. She laid the book to one side, eased herself off the bed, and tucked the covers up round his chin. One last kiss was placed on his brow before she straightened. At the door to his bedroom she looked back. What would the future hold for him? He was so little to be the hope for Barrayar: precious to them as the heir, precious to her as her only child. Well, time would see what it would see. Those months before he was born had taught her the lesson all too well: she powerless to change things and could only wait and see what happened.

* * * * * * * 

Gregor was all too aware that playing in sand was really beneath him. He was, after all, 8 years old: much too old for a sandpit. But not too old to amuse his young relatives for a half-hour until Uncle Aral was able to free himself for his usual lunchtime play with the younger generation. Miles sat happily at the north edge of the sand, having directed Gregor to take the west flank, and ordered Ivan to the south. Bothari had, originally been waved toward the south edge to sit opposite Miles, but had stolidly taken up position to Miles’ left and refused all cajoling to move. He now sat, disruptor in one hand, toy banner in the other. A set of toy soldiers had been unearthed from somewhere, plus horses and several sets of ground cars, trucks, and light-flyers of various sizes. The campaign began at Miles’ command, forces converging on a mountain of sand defended by a cohort of armoured tanks. At one point, Gregor was directed to tunnel under the enemy’s outer perimeter. Amenably he lay flat and pushed his hand under the sand and came up with a shoe – a dark blue suede shoe suitable for a small boy, entirely out of place amidst the sandpit army. It was not the first time Gregor had seen this shoe. But, as he looked across at Bothari, it was the first time he had seen the man look like his dead mother. Gregor blinked, startled, as his mother’s gentle expression looked out from the armsman’s eyes. He blinked again and it was Bothari glowering.

* * * * * * * 

“This is a test of character and judgement,” explained the instructor. “You each have your assigned roles, and, if you want it, each in turn will have his own chance at the Captain’s chair.”

Gregor was just as pleased this time to play second fiddle; his friend Henri Vorvolk was front and centre in command, while he played pilot. Other classmates sat at various stations around the fake Vor-class bridge. There had been some speculation whether the final year _would_ be given this test. An epidemic of mumps amongst the upper class had led to more than half of the young men being sent home for intensive nursing (the possible complications from testicular swelling in infected adults leading to peculiarly Barrayaran fears for the next generation). However, Count Vorkosigan had ordered the exercise be held regardless. A scattering of junior classmen manned several stations, making up the numbers as the senior class was so depleted. Key stations were, however, assigned to the senior students. Richars Vorrutyer was on weapons and tactics. Given his reputation for deviousness, rather than frontal assault, Gregor thought it an interesting assignment. 

On communications, Vormurtos relayed a distress signal from a Barrayaran freighter caught the wrong side of wormhole between the Hegen Hub and Cetegandan space, begging urgent assistance. It had been caught by meteor debris which damaged not only its jump drive but its thrusters as well. It was in danger of being drawn into the wormhole without any way of manoeuvring, a certain death. 

“What is a Barrayaran freighter doing that side of the wormhole in any case?” asked Henri. 

“We don’t ship anything to Cetaganda through this particular wormhole,” Gregor added. “In fact, we don’t really ship _anything_ to Cetaganda. The only thing that goes that direction is diplomatic; and it all goes the shortest route: via Komarr.”

“So, a trap,” said Henri calmly. “Any recommendations?”

“It may be a test of our defences and readiness to respond,” offered Richars, “one that could precipitate war if we don’t react the right way.”

“So, we’d better go in ready to fight,” said Vormurtos. 

“In which case we’re invading,” pointed out Henri, “which will surely lead to war, and certain disaster for a lone vessel.” 

“Better we invade than find ourselves on the wrong side of an invasion,” asserted Vormurtos, hotly. 

Henri wrinkled his forehead. “And if the Cetagandans are trying to provoke a treaty infraction to give them the excuse to invade us?” 

“Perhaps we should simply wait,” offered Richars, “to see if they come through the wormhole.”

“Arrant cowardice!” exclaimed Vormurtos. 

“I don’t suppose,” said Gregor thoughtfully, “that there is any way to peek before we are fully committed to a course of action?” He remembered Uncle Aral telling him a bedtime story years ago, only… it really hadn’t been a bedtime story but the tale of the retreat from Escobar. He turned to his console and began a series of complex calculations: five space maths and then some. He turned back to find all eyes on him. “If we enter the wormhole but sort of _hover_ there, we could see what is happening before we are committed to any particular course of action.” 

Can we _do_ that?” asked Henri sitting forward eagerly. 

Gregor pressed a button sending his calculations to the rest of the bridge consoles. “Perhaps not in real life,” he conceded, “though my calculations indicate it might be something to set the boffins at Vorbarr Sultana University to researching. But in this simulation? It will definitely work.” He exuded quiet confidence. 

Henri settled back into the command chair, lifted his hands to the armrests and shifted the tactical display so he could see it more clearly, then nodded agreement.

Gregor settled the simulation pilot’s linkage on his forehead, and initiated the sequence that directed the ship into the edges of the wormhole. As the cascading rainbow of lights began signalling the bending of normal space, at the edge of his left eye he could see his mother stroking a little blue shoe, smiling.

* * * * * * * 

As the screen image of his foster brother faded and the Rangers commander turned to him, Gregor had a moment of doubt. _Could_ Miles pull it off? Clearly he had _something_ in mind, but he knew Miles of old: all optimistic enthusiasm with flashes of remarkable innovative brilliance. Would it be enough? And even if Miles effected his rescue from Cavilo that didn’t mean he had enough firepower to defend Vervain space from the Cetagandans. It frustrated him to be unable to act – to simply have to wait while others seized destiny in their own hands and made it happen. _He_ wanted to be the rescuer, not the princess in the tower waiting for release (though Gregor’s mind boggled at the thought of Miles as knight errant).

“My love,” cooed Cavilo, “would you not be more comfortable in our cabin while the shuttle is prepared?” 

Ah! His cue to leave, so she could set up whatever trap she had in mind, without his knowledge or interference, thought Gregor. He bestowed a besotted smile on her and inclined his head politely, before leaving her to it. Frustrating as it was to wait, it was all he could do: just see what happened as others round him spun their webs. 

He stumbled as he entered the captain’s cabin, looked down, and saw a small blue shoe at the corner of the doorway. His eyebrow quirked: _here_ \- even _this_ far from Barrayar? Inwardly he gave a little shudder at the thought of what his oh-so-proper mother might have seen; outwardly he merely bent, and picked up the little shoe, giving it a gentle stroke before tucking it into his pocket.

* * * * * * * 

Another social event, another uniform…well, suit. But, one similar to all the others (and none too different from his House uniform). Gregor stood tall, looking at himself in the full length mirror, while his valet whisked round him with a brush flicking at practically non-existent specks of lint. Sometimes, Gregor wondered what would happen if he turned up at an event dressed as…Byerly, perhaps – or even Ivan. Let alone someone like one of the exotics he had seen on his one and only trip to Beta! He could well imagine the twittering that would set going amongst the ladies (not to mention muttering between the old Counts). His eyes lit with amusement as he thought of the challenge that would provide Alys Vorpatril. But no, his role was scripted already – no ad-libbing for him. He thanked his valet of 20 years, before making his way along a corridor towards the hall where the reception was being held. 

As always, Simon Illyan waited for him in the ante-chamber with a last minute briefing, plus an earbud to wear. It itched, also as always. It didn’t seem to matter what new and improved hypoallergenic material they came up with to manufacture the next generation earbud from, _always_ it itched. Once he’d been the source of a suggestion to the university laboratories that had led to great pioneering discoveries in wormhole jump technology. That had been years ago; now he simply seemed to inspire new treatments for allergies. He had the depressing thought of what would be written about his reign in the history books - greatest achievement: this is the Emperor who funded allergy research. As he stood exchanging polite pleasantries with his guests, out of the corner of his eye, Gregor spied his cousin Miles entering the Glass Hall: no one would ever say that of _him_ \- nor of Delia Koudelka, statuesque beauty that she was. Each was breaking fresh ground albeit in vastly different ways. They were escorting one another this evening; Gregor could not, however, see them as anything but companions of convenience. But who were they with? Miles’ gestures encompassed two other figures he had not seen before. He felt an unexpected stirring of interest. Gregor's surreptitious glances their way made him lose the thread of conversation with General Vorparadijs. Just in time, he smiled noncommittally and said something diplomatic but neutral, managing to soothe the old man's incipient ire (it would only be another homily against modern youth anyway). 

And then they were there, directly in front of him. His earbud whispered the bare bones of Galeni’s career to him as he accepted the man’s bow. 

“Yes, Captain Galeni, I’ve heard of you,” he said quietly, before turning his attention to the captain’s female companion.

She was delectable: voluptuous femininity made elegant by Komarran dress, glowing in brilliant jewel colours of red and blue-green. He smiled his appreciation of her beauty as he eyed her figure from top to...toe – blue toes, to be exact. Dainty little toes shod in blue suede. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Let's See What Happens (The False Destiny Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12016023) by [celli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celli/pseuds/celli)




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